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Title: Quarter to Ten at the A&E, Where Nobody Thought They Would Need to Be
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
crazyparakiss and winterstorrm
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warning(s): Mpreg, Talk of people in the mental ward
Word Count: 2.4K
Summary: Harry’s daughter is ill, he needs a Healer.
Notes: Title and first line taken from a song called Accident and Emergency by Lucy Wainwright Roche, you know cause Kiss is an avid Lucy fan and couldn’t resist.
Saturday night in the old country and we come to you on our knees.
Harry screamed at the old witch who sat at the counter and blandly told him he’d have to wait for a Healer just as all the other people in the waiting wing were made to do. He was terribly embarrassed and annoyed with himself when he started to cry due to frustration.
“My daughter is ill,” he pleaded. “I don’t know how to make her well.”
The witch was still irritated at him for his momentary fit, he could tell by the lines round her lips, but her blue eyes softened at him and she appeared to take pity. “There is a specialist on call, but he’s not one for paediatrics.”
“Please,” Harry begged, “I don’t care if he’s a complete twat; I just want someone to make her well now.”
Taking pity she jotted a memo and the note flew down the hall, round a bend and was out of sight in no time.
Harry counted the seconds and no more than eleven seconds later a reply zipped down the corridor.
The witch’s stubby fingers caught it deftly, and opened the parchment. Then with a polite smile at Harry she said, “Healer Malfoy will see you—he’s on the fourth floor, at the end of the left corridor you’ll find a door—that’s his office.”
“Did you say Malfoy?” Harry blurted.
Her polite smile vanished, “Mr Potter, I’ve had just about as much as I can stand of you for the evening—take Mr Malfoy’s politeness, for it is rare, or remain like the others in the waiting wing. The decision is yours.”
Harry looked at the small being in his arms, at her ridiculously flushed skin, and before he could decide to take her to Malfoy his feet were carrying him in the direction of Malfoy’s office.
It’d been quite a while since he’d set foot on the fourth floor of St Mungo’s—Spell Damage wasn’t something he liked to see, it was far too tragic and made him feel terribly guilty. He was aware that what Lockhart had done he'd done to himself, but Harry still felt partly responsible. And Neville’s parents—locked away in madness inflicted by a venomous witch—Harry felt Neville would always be stronger than him due to them. Harry’s parents were dead, sure, but he didn’t have to look at the remaining shells of their bodies. Seeing them, meeting them, and never knowing them—Neville was a brave man, indeed.
Harry passed Ward 49 and sent a silent prayer for all the residents therein, and he hoped he’d never find his way among them. He pulled the warm child closer to him, settled her against his chest and hurried to find Draco’s office.
It was much as he expected—ridiculously neat with no personal effects, dark imposing furniture, and the heavy scents of leather, furniture polish, and black coffee. Harry couldn’t detect the lingering scent of expensive tobacco until Draco stepped into the room, and along with Draco’s expensive cologne they danced across Harry’s senses.
“Potter,” Draco said, in his no-nonsense tone, “What brings you to St Mungo’s at this ungodly hour?”
“My daughter is ill.”
“That terribly small thing in your arms is a child?” Draco was flicking his wand and soon soft light flooded his office, but to Harry the shine could not chase off the gloom Draco seemed to exude.
“Yes,” Harry bit out.
“She’s awfully quiet,” Draco spoke as he rose from his seat, and came around the desk to gesture for Harry to hand her to him. He hesitated and Draco’s next words were far from patient, “Hand her to me, Potter, or let her be ill—the choice is yours.”
“Okay.” Harry handed her over slowly and was surprised by the gentle way Draco cradled her head and how his arm supported her slight weight with his strong arm.
“She feels too light,” Draco said as he carried her around to the other side of his desk and laid her upon the soft leather inlay. His long white fingers parted her blankets and he watched the way she breathed—in, out, in, out—then he took hold of a parchment pad and took up a quill to jot a few things down. Draco opened a drawer and produced a set of latex gloves. Harry watched as Draco snapped them on and the baby let out an unholy wail—her little arms and legs thrashing about suddenly.
There was a smile hiding in the corners of Draco’s mouth as he turned his gaze towards the baby, “Finally, a reaction.”
He opened the babygrow Harry had on her and touched her stomach, making notes as he went, and she kept on screaming. Harry could feel a headache coming on and wanted to beat the hell out of Draco for not letting him soothe his little angel.
Finally Draco did up her pale yellow babygrow and took the swaddling from around her and threw it at Harry.
“She’s going to get cold.” Harry said angrily.
“She’s overheated Potter that’s why she’s so fucking flushed and warm to the touch. You’ve got your child wrapped up in too many things. I saw the tights under the romper—doesn’t Granger tell you anything?”
“Why was she so quiet?” Harry demanded.
“Perhaps she sleeps as deeply as you do.” Draco looked embarrassed at his own words and quickly covered the awkwardness with a barb, “She’s your child so of course she’s going to be as thick as her father. No doubt she inherited bad genes from whatever friend you chose to mother her.”
Harry didn’t have the heart to tell Draco there was no mother—she was evidence of what they’d once been, for a brief moment in time.
“What’s the little tit’s name?” Draco’s words were rude as always but his eyes were soft as he held the sleeping form closer.
“Dorea,” Harry said his voice soft.
“A fine name,” Draco said with a smirk down at the child whose eyes were slowly fluttering. “I thought for sure you’d have given her your mother’s name.”
“No,” he whispered, “That wouldn’t be fair.”
He moved closer to Draco and held out his arms to take Dorea, but Draco moved away and said, “I’ll walk you to the Floo.”
“There’s no need, really.” Harry was too hasty with his reply.
“I insist—it’s not often I get to wind you up.” Draco’s words brought a memory to Harry’s mind and he wished fervently it would leave as quickly as it’d come. The scent of Draco’s preferred tobacco and cologne fuelled Harry’s senses with tastes and the remembrance of touch—slick skin, and hot damp moans tickling at his ear.
They were in the corridor, and Draco walked slowly. He claimed he didn’t want to upset the baby but Harry knew better—he was prolonging their interactions to annoy Harry.
At Ward 49 Harry shivered, but not from the memories or guilt—he shivered due to the haunted image that appeared before him, the woman in white who had large, terrified eyes. She ran towards them and Harry’s wand was in his hand before he could think, but Draco, for once, was faster and had it from him in a moment.
“Lucius!” she cried and Harry realised who she was when she wrapped her arms around Draco’s neck and kissed his cheek. “Lucius, I couldn’t find Draco—he wasn’t in his cradle and I was afraid, Lucius—so afraid.”
“Shhhh, Narcissa,” Draco said and it was terrifying how much he sounded like his father when he said his mother’s name. “Draco is sleeping, nothing will harm him now—of that I am certain.”
She noticed the baby in his arms and Harry was horrified when she snatched Dorea away, but her hold was gentle and she was less mad round the eyes as she gazed down at Harry’s child.
“He’s perfect, Lucius—he’s got your nose.” She traced the curve of Dorea’s nose and slipped the palm of her finger around Dorea’s plump cheek.
“He looks nothing like me,” Draco answered but Narcissa didn’t look terribly upset by that and she leaned down to kiss Dorea’s face before she handed her back to Draco.
“He looks just like you, Lucius. Here—hold your son. I am tired all of a sudden.” Harry noticed then, Malfoy’s wand trained on Narcissa with a pale nearly imperceptible light glowing at its tip. Other Healers came to fetch her when she was slumped against the wall in the corridor.
“Now you know my mother is here indefinitely,” Draco said with a solemn expression, “And now I know why you’ve been hiding from me for the past 12 months.” He held Dorea closer then and her eyes were open, even without the lights in the corridor Harry knew Draco would know her eyes were dove grey, the colour of her father’s. “She’s mine.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
:::
His daughter. His child. Draco's heart swelled with something, a feeling he didn't even know he could possess. Not just love, something more tangible than the love he’d known up to this point. Deep and overwhelming he felt the need to protect this small being at his chest—this girl who shared his blood. And Potter had kept his daughter from him. "Why?" he managed finally, staring down at Dorea in awe.
"It was one night, Malfoy," Harry said, reaching out and taking Dorea out of Draco's arms and holding her to his chest. "And that was the last I heard from you—you said—well, no, that doesn't matter now. Dorea's my daughter, not yours, and I'll thank you for taking care of her today, but that's all you are going to get from me."
He didn't meet Draco's eyes as he turned and walked away, leaving Draco still reeling with shock. His legs wouldn't move but his mind was sprinting. There was no way he was letting this go.
:::
For months they lived in stilted silence. Draco had taken it upon himself to move into Number 12 with Harry and Dorea. They were in separate bedrooms, Harry in Sirius’s old room, Draco in the master suites. Dorea’s nursery was Regulus’s old room, but more often than not she was asleep in bed with Harry.
Draco had snarled and thrown him from the bed the first time he’d discovered Harry in bed with the baby. “What happens if you suffocate her in her sleep, you retarded twat!”
“She’s got a charm around her.”
“And if your shoddy charm fails? Then what, Potter?” He shook Harry hard. “Use your fucking brain for once!”
Dorea had woken and screamed—Draco’s face went soft as he shoved Harry away from him and went to soothe her cries. And Harry felt like a fool as he slid down the wall and buried his face in his hands.
:::
He'd known it would be like this, that living in close proximity to Harry Potter would be a new form of torture. In his mind there had been no other option for him. Now he'd met Dorea he couldn't let her go—and Harry—he'd never forgotten that night with Harry, but all of the chaos with his mother's illness had taken it out of him and before he'd known it too much time had passed and rumour had it Potter had become a father. He'd tried not to care—and had done a poor job of it. If it hadn't been for his work, if he’d made more time, if, if, if—if’s were the regretful excuses Draco couldn’t afford now, not when there was a baby and miserable man who needed him.
The more time he spent with Harry and Dorea the more he wanted to be a family, the more he wanted Potter. Harry was so distant all the time and Draco didn't know what to do to make it right—Harry thought Draco hadn't cared, and he didn't know where to start—didn't know if Harry wanted him to.
One thing was certain—he couldn't go on like this. For once, he had to make things right.
:::
Draco hadn’t spoken to him in days—and Harry lived through his life in a near stupor. Before Draco when it was just he and Dorea things had been much the same. He didn’t know much about parenting and it hadn’t exactly come naturally. Draco was ridiculously good at it and that fact only served to irritate Harry.
“Sit,” Draco commanded of Harry one evening.
He thought about rebelling but he sat and hunched over the table. Draco was behind him then and rubbed away the tension in his shoulders. He groaned appreciatively and relaxed into the touched just before Draco kissed at Harry’s exposed neck. It surprised him and he shot out of his chair, away from Draco’s touch.
“What the devil are you doing?” He demanded.
But Draco’s eyes were on Harry’s lips and Draco’s hands were working at his own robes and trousers. Suddenly, Harry felt want coil in his stomach, as it hadn’t in over a year, and he was mush as Draco pulled him nearer.
“I missed you,” Harry whispered, knowing it was the truth even though they'd only had that one night. Draco was an illness that had settled in his bones, leaving him aching and in need. It had only been once, but they held one another as if they’d known each other’s bodies since before memory had formed. To be horribly cliché, it had been magical.
“I know,” Draco smirked and kissed along Harry’s jaw. Then he whispered against Harry’s flushed skin, “I am here now.” And Harry hoped he’d always stay.
:::
“Draco,” Harry burst through the office door with a three year old Dorea asleep against his chest. Her face was flushed and Draco smiled as Harry brought her closer. “Draco, she’s ill!”
“Well give her here.” Harry scolded him for his smiling but Draco couldn’t help it—he found Harry ridiculously charming when he was being a worry wart. It was a little cold, but Harry acted as if it were the end of the world. Because he loved her—when Draco felt Harry’s hand on his cheek he turned his attention to his lover.
“Fix her, Draco.” And he sucked in a breath while he gazed into Harry’s pleading eyes—it was profound and wonderful to be loved, Draco knew because Harry would never trust his daughter’s wellbeing to a person he didn’t love.
Authors:
crazyparakiss and winterstorrmRating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warning(s): Mpreg, Talk of people in the mental ward
Word Count: 2.4K
Summary: Harry’s daughter is ill, he needs a Healer.
Notes: Title and first line taken from a song called Accident and Emergency by Lucy Wainwright Roche, you know cause Kiss is an avid Lucy fan and couldn’t resist.
Saturday night in the old country and we come to you on our knees.
Harry screamed at the old witch who sat at the counter and blandly told him he’d have to wait for a Healer just as all the other people in the waiting wing were made to do. He was terribly embarrassed and annoyed with himself when he started to cry due to frustration.
“My daughter is ill,” he pleaded. “I don’t know how to make her well.”
The witch was still irritated at him for his momentary fit, he could tell by the lines round her lips, but her blue eyes softened at him and she appeared to take pity. “There is a specialist on call, but he’s not one for paediatrics.”
“Please,” Harry begged, “I don’t care if he’s a complete twat; I just want someone to make her well now.”
Taking pity she jotted a memo and the note flew down the hall, round a bend and was out of sight in no time.
Harry counted the seconds and no more than eleven seconds later a reply zipped down the corridor.
The witch’s stubby fingers caught it deftly, and opened the parchment. Then with a polite smile at Harry she said, “Healer Malfoy will see you—he’s on the fourth floor, at the end of the left corridor you’ll find a door—that’s his office.”
“Did you say Malfoy?” Harry blurted.
Her polite smile vanished, “Mr Potter, I’ve had just about as much as I can stand of you for the evening—take Mr Malfoy’s politeness, for it is rare, or remain like the others in the waiting wing. The decision is yours.”
Harry looked at the small being in his arms, at her ridiculously flushed skin, and before he could decide to take her to Malfoy his feet were carrying him in the direction of Malfoy’s office.
It’d been quite a while since he’d set foot on the fourth floor of St Mungo’s—Spell Damage wasn’t something he liked to see, it was far too tragic and made him feel terribly guilty. He was aware that what Lockhart had done he'd done to himself, but Harry still felt partly responsible. And Neville’s parents—locked away in madness inflicted by a venomous witch—Harry felt Neville would always be stronger than him due to them. Harry’s parents were dead, sure, but he didn’t have to look at the remaining shells of their bodies. Seeing them, meeting them, and never knowing them—Neville was a brave man, indeed.
Harry passed Ward 49 and sent a silent prayer for all the residents therein, and he hoped he’d never find his way among them. He pulled the warm child closer to him, settled her against his chest and hurried to find Draco’s office.
It was much as he expected—ridiculously neat with no personal effects, dark imposing furniture, and the heavy scents of leather, furniture polish, and black coffee. Harry couldn’t detect the lingering scent of expensive tobacco until Draco stepped into the room, and along with Draco’s expensive cologne they danced across Harry’s senses.
“Potter,” Draco said, in his no-nonsense tone, “What brings you to St Mungo’s at this ungodly hour?”
“My daughter is ill.”
“That terribly small thing in your arms is a child?” Draco was flicking his wand and soon soft light flooded his office, but to Harry the shine could not chase off the gloom Draco seemed to exude.
“Yes,” Harry bit out.
“She’s awfully quiet,” Draco spoke as he rose from his seat, and came around the desk to gesture for Harry to hand her to him. He hesitated and Draco’s next words were far from patient, “Hand her to me, Potter, or let her be ill—the choice is yours.”
“Okay.” Harry handed her over slowly and was surprised by the gentle way Draco cradled her head and how his arm supported her slight weight with his strong arm.
“She feels too light,” Draco said as he carried her around to the other side of his desk and laid her upon the soft leather inlay. His long white fingers parted her blankets and he watched the way she breathed—in, out, in, out—then he took hold of a parchment pad and took up a quill to jot a few things down. Draco opened a drawer and produced a set of latex gloves. Harry watched as Draco snapped them on and the baby let out an unholy wail—her little arms and legs thrashing about suddenly.
There was a smile hiding in the corners of Draco’s mouth as he turned his gaze towards the baby, “Finally, a reaction.”
He opened the babygrow Harry had on her and touched her stomach, making notes as he went, and she kept on screaming. Harry could feel a headache coming on and wanted to beat the hell out of Draco for not letting him soothe his little angel.
Finally Draco did up her pale yellow babygrow and took the swaddling from around her and threw it at Harry.
“She’s going to get cold.” Harry said angrily.
“She’s overheated Potter that’s why she’s so fucking flushed and warm to the touch. You’ve got your child wrapped up in too many things. I saw the tights under the romper—doesn’t Granger tell you anything?”
“Why was she so quiet?” Harry demanded.
“Perhaps she sleeps as deeply as you do.” Draco looked embarrassed at his own words and quickly covered the awkwardness with a barb, “She’s your child so of course she’s going to be as thick as her father. No doubt she inherited bad genes from whatever friend you chose to mother her.”
Harry didn’t have the heart to tell Draco there was no mother—she was evidence of what they’d once been, for a brief moment in time.
“What’s the little tit’s name?” Draco’s words were rude as always but his eyes were soft as he held the sleeping form closer.
“Dorea,” Harry said his voice soft.
“A fine name,” Draco said with a smirk down at the child whose eyes were slowly fluttering. “I thought for sure you’d have given her your mother’s name.”
“No,” he whispered, “That wouldn’t be fair.”
He moved closer to Draco and held out his arms to take Dorea, but Draco moved away and said, “I’ll walk you to the Floo.”
“There’s no need, really.” Harry was too hasty with his reply.
“I insist—it’s not often I get to wind you up.” Draco’s words brought a memory to Harry’s mind and he wished fervently it would leave as quickly as it’d come. The scent of Draco’s preferred tobacco and cologne fuelled Harry’s senses with tastes and the remembrance of touch—slick skin, and hot damp moans tickling at his ear.
They were in the corridor, and Draco walked slowly. He claimed he didn’t want to upset the baby but Harry knew better—he was prolonging their interactions to annoy Harry.
At Ward 49 Harry shivered, but not from the memories or guilt—he shivered due to the haunted image that appeared before him, the woman in white who had large, terrified eyes. She ran towards them and Harry’s wand was in his hand before he could think, but Draco, for once, was faster and had it from him in a moment.
“Lucius!” she cried and Harry realised who she was when she wrapped her arms around Draco’s neck and kissed his cheek. “Lucius, I couldn’t find Draco—he wasn’t in his cradle and I was afraid, Lucius—so afraid.”
“Shhhh, Narcissa,” Draco said and it was terrifying how much he sounded like his father when he said his mother’s name. “Draco is sleeping, nothing will harm him now—of that I am certain.”
She noticed the baby in his arms and Harry was horrified when she snatched Dorea away, but her hold was gentle and she was less mad round the eyes as she gazed down at Harry’s child.
“He’s perfect, Lucius—he’s got your nose.” She traced the curve of Dorea’s nose and slipped the palm of her finger around Dorea’s plump cheek.
“He looks nothing like me,” Draco answered but Narcissa didn’t look terribly upset by that and she leaned down to kiss Dorea’s face before she handed her back to Draco.
“He looks just like you, Lucius. Here—hold your son. I am tired all of a sudden.” Harry noticed then, Malfoy’s wand trained on Narcissa with a pale nearly imperceptible light glowing at its tip. Other Healers came to fetch her when she was slumped against the wall in the corridor.
“Now you know my mother is here indefinitely,” Draco said with a solemn expression, “And now I know why you’ve been hiding from me for the past 12 months.” He held Dorea closer then and her eyes were open, even without the lights in the corridor Harry knew Draco would know her eyes were dove grey, the colour of her father’s. “She’s mine.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
:::
His daughter. His child. Draco's heart swelled with something, a feeling he didn't even know he could possess. Not just love, something more tangible than the love he’d known up to this point. Deep and overwhelming he felt the need to protect this small being at his chest—this girl who shared his blood. And Potter had kept his daughter from him. "Why?" he managed finally, staring down at Dorea in awe.
"It was one night, Malfoy," Harry said, reaching out and taking Dorea out of Draco's arms and holding her to his chest. "And that was the last I heard from you—you said—well, no, that doesn't matter now. Dorea's my daughter, not yours, and I'll thank you for taking care of her today, but that's all you are going to get from me."
He didn't meet Draco's eyes as he turned and walked away, leaving Draco still reeling with shock. His legs wouldn't move but his mind was sprinting. There was no way he was letting this go.
:::
For months they lived in stilted silence. Draco had taken it upon himself to move into Number 12 with Harry and Dorea. They were in separate bedrooms, Harry in Sirius’s old room, Draco in the master suites. Dorea’s nursery was Regulus’s old room, but more often than not she was asleep in bed with Harry.
Draco had snarled and thrown him from the bed the first time he’d discovered Harry in bed with the baby. “What happens if you suffocate her in her sleep, you retarded twat!”
“She’s got a charm around her.”
“And if your shoddy charm fails? Then what, Potter?” He shook Harry hard. “Use your fucking brain for once!”
Dorea had woken and screamed—Draco’s face went soft as he shoved Harry away from him and went to soothe her cries. And Harry felt like a fool as he slid down the wall and buried his face in his hands.
:::
He'd known it would be like this, that living in close proximity to Harry Potter would be a new form of torture. In his mind there had been no other option for him. Now he'd met Dorea he couldn't let her go—and Harry—he'd never forgotten that night with Harry, but all of the chaos with his mother's illness had taken it out of him and before he'd known it too much time had passed and rumour had it Potter had become a father. He'd tried not to care—and had done a poor job of it. If it hadn't been for his work, if he’d made more time, if, if, if—if’s were the regretful excuses Draco couldn’t afford now, not when there was a baby and miserable man who needed him.
The more time he spent with Harry and Dorea the more he wanted to be a family, the more he wanted Potter. Harry was so distant all the time and Draco didn't know what to do to make it right—Harry thought Draco hadn't cared, and he didn't know where to start—didn't know if Harry wanted him to.
One thing was certain—he couldn't go on like this. For once, he had to make things right.
:::
Draco hadn’t spoken to him in days—and Harry lived through his life in a near stupor. Before Draco when it was just he and Dorea things had been much the same. He didn’t know much about parenting and it hadn’t exactly come naturally. Draco was ridiculously good at it and that fact only served to irritate Harry.
“Sit,” Draco commanded of Harry one evening.
He thought about rebelling but he sat and hunched over the table. Draco was behind him then and rubbed away the tension in his shoulders. He groaned appreciatively and relaxed into the touched just before Draco kissed at Harry’s exposed neck. It surprised him and he shot out of his chair, away from Draco’s touch.
“What the devil are you doing?” He demanded.
But Draco’s eyes were on Harry’s lips and Draco’s hands were working at his own robes and trousers. Suddenly, Harry felt want coil in his stomach, as it hadn’t in over a year, and he was mush as Draco pulled him nearer.
“I missed you,” Harry whispered, knowing it was the truth even though they'd only had that one night. Draco was an illness that had settled in his bones, leaving him aching and in need. It had only been once, but they held one another as if they’d known each other’s bodies since before memory had formed. To be horribly cliché, it had been magical.
“I know,” Draco smirked and kissed along Harry’s jaw. Then he whispered against Harry’s flushed skin, “I am here now.” And Harry hoped he’d always stay.
:::
“Draco,” Harry burst through the office door with a three year old Dorea asleep against his chest. Her face was flushed and Draco smiled as Harry brought her closer. “Draco, she’s ill!”
“Well give her here.” Harry scolded him for his smiling but Draco couldn’t help it—he found Harry ridiculously charming when he was being a worry wart. It was a little cold, but Harry acted as if it were the end of the world. Because he loved her—when Draco felt Harry’s hand on his cheek he turned his attention to his lover.
“Fix her, Draco.” And he sucked in a breath while he gazed into Harry’s pleading eyes—it was profound and wonderful to be loved, Draco knew because Harry would never trust his daughter’s wellbeing to a person he didn’t love.
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Date: 2012-09-18 04:36 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-09-18 12:29 pm (UTC)From:*squishes*